Distortion
by Uozumi
Summary: My Life in Film (2004) crossover. When MI-6 captures Moriarty, he confesses his real name is Jones and a woman named M hired both him and his friend Art on as actors for a reality program. Now he must flesh out a plan provided by Mycroft Holmes to ensure at least Art might survive and the game might end.


**Fandom** _My Life in Film_/_Sherlock_ (2010) (My Life in Filmlock)  
**Character(s)/Pairing(s)** Art, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, Jones, M; pre-fic Beth/Jones, take pairings as you will.  
**Genre** Crossover/Drama  
**Rating** PG-13  
**Word Count** 5,580  
**Disclaimer** My Life in Film c. Chappell, BBC; Sherlock c. Sir Doyle, Gatiss, Moffat, BBC  
**Summary** When MI-6 captures Moriarty, he confesses his real name is Jones and a woman named M hired both him and his friend Art on as actors for a reality program. Now he must flesh out a plan provided by Mycroft Holmes to ensure at least Art might survive and the game might end.  
**Warning(s)** violence, pre-fic major _My Life in Film_ character death, potential spoilers up through series one episode six of _My Life in Film_; spoilers up through series two episode three of _Sherlock_  
**Notes** This stemmed from a conversation with Kitty (my Britpicker) about what if Jones had been hired by someone to play Moriarty and Art was his Moran and it just kind of turned into this big thing and became this fic.

_**Distortion**_

**x**

I've started working on a new script. It's about these two guys who meet up with this temptress. She ends up paying them to be part of some reality program where they play criminals to get one over on this guy who pretends to be a detective. Except, the detective is a detective, the bombs are real, the guns are real, and it all goes horribly wrong.

**x**

There were mirrors surrounding him. Jones knew they were two-way mirrors. He could expect no less. When the agents left him alone in the room, he filled the mirrors with scratch marks. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Repeatedly with a bit of metal he knocked off one of the uneven chair legs with enough effort. He wanted to talk to someone who was not a faceless suit. He needed to talk to the man with the power. Jones was cold, alone, and terrified. He was not sure why he kept playing his part, but he did. He was Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. Some sort of genius with an empire. He was also Jones, mild-mannered cinema co-owner and one-off actor who was in so deep that if a bottle appeared with the label 'drink me," he would not question it.

It took a lot of misbehaving and silence but eventually, Jones got the right man to appear at the room's door. Mycroft Holmes must have watched him from the other side of the mirrors all this time. Jones lost track of how many days a long time ago. Or, at least, this man was someone with ginger hair that reminded Jones of Sherlock Holmes' eyebrows. This man also had the same gleam of observant intelligence behind his eyes. This man must be Mycroft, the government head that Jones texted a few times on behalf of M. Jones tilted his head from one side to the other and met Mycroft's gaze. Once he had Mycroft's attention, Jones finally broke character. His eyes became softer, more afraid and his facial muscles relaxed considerably. Jones took a deep breath. "You're the one I wanted to talk to," he said, Irish accent thick and relieved.

"Don't insult my intelligence, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft said. He remained standing. "Now is not the time for theatrics. If you pretend to have dissociative identity disorder, so help me…" his voice trailed. Mycroft sounded already annoyed, perhaps permanently annoyed. M's description did Mycroft much justice.

"I'm not Jim Moriarty," Jones said. "I mean, I am, sort of. I play him for telly. Or, I did. I thought." He rubbed his face with his hands. "My equity name is Richard Brook. I'm an actor. I don't...I didn't...I don't kill people," he managed.

Mycroft was quiet for a long time. Jones could feel Mycroft's scrutiny analysing his every atom. When Jones looked up at Mycroft, Mycroft's gaze remained stern. "Did you forget the bomb-"

"I can't forget!" Jones exclaimed. He grew even paler. "I would not have..." his voice trailed. He wanted to curl up and not talk for a long time. He knew he had to keep talking. "Beth was there! She'd gone to help a friend, and..." his voice trailed again. Jones was going to be sick and Art was not here to help. Not that Art was much help in the comfort department, but Art would fumble around and find some movies to marathon and at least Jones would not be alone with the image of the building collapsing after the explosion replaying in his mind.

Mycroft scooted a rubbish bin closer with the toe of his shoe just in case Jones really did become ill. Mycroft remained silent. When Jones was quiet for several minutes, Mycroft asked quietly, "Who is Beth?"

"She's," Jones stopped himself, realizing he used the present tense. It had been a year and he still made the mistake. "She was my fiancée," he said. He shifted in the chair. "We were going to get married in June." Yeah. He was going to be sick. He knew he should not be sick, not when Mycroft was entertaining the truth. Jones swallowed back the bile. "Beth had this friend who was a nurse for shut-ins. Her friend was sick and asked Beth check in on this blind woman. I didn't know it was the blind woman with the bomb. I didn't know those were real bombs."

"What was the name of her 'friend?'" Mycroft asked.

"Jean? Jeanette?" Jones tried to remember. "She used to work with Beth."

"Let's pretend what you're saying is true," Mycroft said. "Now, tell me, how did you end up in the middle of this web?"

Jones grew quiet, organizing his thoughts. "M is the middle," Jones said. "I'm her face. She tells me what to text you and others." His shoulders sagged. "This couple on a date came to the cinema one night followed by some creeper. I didn't see them. The next night a woman came around as a face for M. She had these contracts for a reality TV show. They wanted us to become the antagonists for some detective program. Hidden cameras, hidden microphones, it looked legitimate and my agent thought it was legitimate. I would play Jim Moriarty. Art would play Sebastian Moran. We'd antagonize this guy called Sherlock Holmes and his friend John Watson. M would feed us lines and give us props. It was my first crime drama. It was Art's first time acting. We thought they were props. Sherlock's gun was a prop at the pool."

Mycroft remained silent. His body language remained stern. Jones could not tell if Mycroft believed him. Jones was not sure he would believe himself in Mycroft's position either.

"I know I've caused problems. I will take the fall. I want Art to be safe. I don't want M to hurt him," Jones said. He knew pleading Art's case would not be the right tactic with Mycroft. Mycroft reminded him of the worst kind of directors at an audition.

Mycroft remained silent for a long time again. Then he took a step back. "I will look into your story. If it checks out, we will speak again." He left the room.

Once Jones was alone, he could not hold back any longer. He threw up into the bin by his feet until nothing remained in his stomach.

There were no clocks, no calendars. Jones moved from the interrogation room to solitary confinement. Was he Jones? Was he Jim Moriarty? Was he Richard Brook? Sometimes Jones did not know. Jones guessed it was at least three to four days before the guards took him from solitary confinement. This time the guards walked Jones past the interrogation rooms and down a long hallway. The guards ushered him into a room and Jones received street clothes and the option of a shower under supervision. Once cleaned and dressed, Jones entered an elevator and the guards took him out of the sublevels and into the higher levels. Once on the fifth floor, the guards led Jones to a cafe with a nice view of the city. Jones sat at a predetermined table and the guards left. Jones stayed put. He did not know what to expect, but he suspected everyone around him, even the servers, were agents.

A few minutes later, Mycroft sat down across from Jones. A server set tea in front of Jones and then departed. Once Jones took a sip of the tea, Mycroft spoke, "We looked into your story. Spoke with your friend and your agent." He reached into his pocket and set the mobile phone, wallet, and keys Jones used as Moriarty on the table.

"Don't you need to keep those?" Jones asked.

"There will be time to use them for evidence," Mycroft said. "I want you to continue your acting. Everyone assumes you were heavily affected by Beth's death and do not yet suspect my involvement. We will drive you somewhere you can get back home by your own means."

Jones reluctantly put Moriarty's belongings in his pockets. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me," Mycroft said. "There is something we need from you. We want M as much as you wish to break free." Mycroft outlined a plan. He already had people Jones would have to contact and places Jones would have to infiltrate. "We do not know if there are secret cameras or secret microphones in places you frequent," Mycroft said, "but those should be assumed."

Jones nodded. "Yes, sir." After a few questions, the guards returned to escort Jones to a waiting car. The car left Jones off near a train station a person who travelled from Ireland might use if returning to London from the coast. Jones took a moment to sit down on one of the benches. He did not have his personal mobile on him, only the Moriarty mobile phone. He pulled himself into character and then he dialled the Moran number. He let the phone ring. When Art did not answer immediately, Jones tried again. He contorted his face. He flexed his fingers. He oscillated his head back and forth like a snake. He hated how well this character fit him.

After the third try, Art answered. "Moran," he said. It helped him stay in character, though M had yet to allow Art to be somewhere Sherlock and John might see him.

"It's Jim," Jones said.

"Jo - Jim," Art hissed. "Where have you been? M's been on my back about you. You've been gone since March."

"I had to take some time," Jones said. "It's that time of year."

"Where are you?" Art asked. "I'll come get you."

"That doesn't matter," Jones said. He did not want M to intercept him before he could meet back up with Art. "Do what you're supposed to do. I'll meet with you there." He meant the cinema. If there was no "filming" scheduled, they continued their normal lives. Art agreed. He had to leave to open the cinema soon. They had a double Marx Brothers feature tonight and that sometimes brought a larger group of customers than normal.

Jones took a bus home. He washed the styling gel from his hair and put on cheap clothes he had owned for years. He put on his trainers and then walked to the cinema. Art was already behind the box office. It was a relief to see Art in a t-shirt and worn zip top instead of the all-black ex-military inspired clothing M put Art in for the pool encounter.

"You okay?" Art asked.

"Y - Yeah," Jones said. It was a lie. He let his hair hang in his eyes. He helped pass out popcorn and tickets to the handful of customers that arrived. Jones turned on projector to start the first movie and sat back in one of the projection room chairs. Art sat in the other chair, produced two boxes of popcorn, and handed one to Jones. Neither said anything for a long time.

"Where'd you go?" Art asked about half way through the movie. The sound of harp music echoed around them.

Jones' eyes moved about the projection booth. Everywhere looked like a place for a camera or a listening device. His gaze found its way to Art. "I went somewhere. I thought about things." He licked his lips. "And I know how to get rid of Sherlock in that show."

"Yeah?" Art asked.

Jones let Art believe the gas main story behind the bombing last year. Jones did not realize the blind woman's bomb was a real bomb until he read John's 'The Great Game" entry. He could still remember roaring, "That's what people do!" when Sherlock tried to get into a conversation about death at the pool. He poked at his popcorn, not hungry. "I'm going to isolate him and then confront him directly." Jones said.

"Is that smart?" Art asked. "I don't think he realizes he's on a reality program sometimes."

"Because it's not," Jones mumbled so quietly that Art could not hear him. They did not talk much more for the remainder of the films when some children started acting up over a couple sitting near them that wanted to make out while the movies played.

The nightmares still kept Jones up at night. Sometimes he lay in bed until his alarm rang. Sometimes he wandered the flat. When M called Moriarty's mobile hours before dawn, Jones was wide awake.

"Hello, Jim darling," M said. Her voice had inauthentic warmth. Jones could not tell if she wanted something, was angry with him, or both. It was probably both. Sometimes he wondered if she was a liaison for the real M. She was the only one who called him. She was the one who told him what to text Mycroft. She also told him what to say to the blind woman over the phone.

"Hello, M," Jones said. He swept his hair off his forehead. He had to be in character. He could not break character with her.

"You have been gone a long time," M said. "I had to do some of your work."

Jones sat on his bed and looked out his window. "My fiancée left me a year ago." He thought that was not technically a lie since death was a way of leaving. "I had to take some time." He decided to push ahead without waiting for her response. "I know how to destroy Sherlock." He looked away from the window. "I want to isolate him and then confront him. It would be a great finale."

"Did Moran write this?" M asked.

"No," Jones said. "It's my own. I had a lot of time to think on my own. We get someone to tell me his life story. I sell it to the papers. People will begin to question him. This program has set him up as an actual detective and we both know that's not true." Jones tilted his head back and forth. He was spring boarding off what Mycroft told him, making parts of the plan his own. "We use _The Storyteller_, tie in other fairy tales. And then, Humpty Dumpty has his great fall." Jones told Mycroft he would take the fall. It came naturally, integrating that kind of language into this mess of a plan. He had an idea how to integrate a literal fall. He thought he could trust Sherlock to find a way to survive. "What do you think?"

M did not respond immediately. Finally, she said, "It needs work, but it's a good start. We'll need the right crimes to frame it if you want to tell him a story." She paused. "It would be horribly dramatic. Sherlock Holmes does enjoy the dramatic if he's the centre of it. You might even get a raise," M said, always remembering the story she told Jones and Art. She hung up on her end of the line after bidding Jones goodnight.

M added a story line about a computer code to the overall plan. Criminals around the world infiltrated London. They wanted the "code" that Sherlock had. The "trial of the century" also spread word of the code without speaking of it. M told Jones she would use love to get him out of jail and she did, finding the things each individual juror could not live without.

Jones visited Sherlock after the jury found him innocent of multiple charges. They had tea and he introduced Mycroft's concept of I.O.U., tying it into his own concept of falling. After that, Jones walked home. Off came the tie. Soon the suit jacket followed. He unbuttoned the top button of his shirt and pushed up his sleeves. His hair had too much gel in it to fix, but he returned home feeling somewhere between Moriarty and Jones. He supposed that made him Richard Brook.

"That was amazing," Art said when Jones returned. "I can't tell if I'm watching the news or if the news is even in on this thing."

Jones slipped off his shoes. "I'm going to change. Make some tea. We have to talk." When Jones returned wearing his cheap clothes with his hair out of place, he poured both of them a cup. He only had a sip at Sherlock's knowing what he would have to do when he came home. Once Art sat, Jones made sure to meet his gaze before he spoke. "It's real, Art."

"I know it's real," Art said. "When is the tea not real?"

"Not the tea," Jones said. "The crimes. The bombs. The everything - it's real."

Art's eyebrows furrowed. "Jones, if it was real, you would be in jail."

"M blackmailed those people," Jones kept his voice low. "Everyone has a price." He ran a thumb along the lip of his mug. "M killed Beth. She might kill us too. I'm going to get us out of this."

"Can't we just call your agent?" Art asked. His eyes followed Jones' thumb before moving up to really look at Jones' face. "You're – You're serious. But why would she kill Beth?"

"Remember the pool? When we tricked John into the bomb vest prop?" Jones asked. When Art nodded, he said, "That might not have been a prop. I don't think much of it were props. M blew up the blind lady, the lady Beth went to see."

"You don't know that," Art said. His first response was typically denial. Jones expected this.

"It's on John's blog," Jones said. "John and Sherlock act like everything's real because it is. It's why that cabbie died. John used a real gun because he thinks it's real because it's real." Jones felt queasy again. Being at home did not help. Neither of them had decided what to do with Beth's belongings. "It's why I got to wear the crown jewels." There was no way the royal family would have ever agreed to that.

Art shifted his weight. "Shit. Shit." He dissolved into curses. "What do we do? That Lestrade guy would flip his shit if we told him the truth. I don't want to meet Sherlock's brother. From what M tells us, he can't be natural. Nobody can be that cold."

Jones took a deep breath. He let Art carry on. He let his own tea go untouched.

"You aren't actually going to kill Sherlock, are you?" Art asked after much fuss.

The question caught Jones off guard. He looked at Art and opened his mouth. No sound came out. He closed his mouth.

"You aren't really going to kill someone on purpose, are you?" Art asked again. "Jones. Jones. We're not really Moriarty and Moran. I've never shot a gun. The worst crime we've ever done was that fake student account scheme. We aren't murderers."

"I'm not going to kill Sherlock," Jones said. "He's going to get out of it somehow. I just have to get us out of this."

"So, where do we go when you get him to die but not actually get him to die?" Art asked. "Not back to the cinema. M'd probably torch it with our corpses inside."

"I've got that under control," Jones said. "I just don't have it all set yet." Mycroft would handle that part. Jones would know more as the plan came to fruition. They would have new lives and never see their families again. He did not know how to tell Art that part yet.

Art leaned back in his chair. He ran his hands through his hair. "I guess we start packing?"

"No," Jones said. "We can't let M know we know. We have to keep acting."

Art shifted in his seat. "It's exciting. More than exciting. Terrifying." His eyes got a bit wild. "I could write about it."

"Maybe?" Jones said. He wondered if Mycroft would let Art write about it, let alone if writing about it would lead M to wherever they relocated.

"Looks like we're stuck together," Art said. He swatted at Jones. "No matter what we do." He got up. "I need to start the script." Art left Jones to clean up the remnants of the tea.

Art and Jones sat in the car Jones used to go to jobs as Richard Brook. Art got his driving licence five years ago, but did not have his own car yet. He sat behind the steering wheel while Jones sat in the passenger seat. They had a view of the street Kitty Riley walked from the bus stop to her residence. Jones stayed with her off and on for the past several days, building an article about Sherlock crafted from information Mycroft gave him to use for such an occasion.

"You really think they're going to show up?" Art asked.

"He'll want her source," Jones said. "We saw the footage from that hidden camera. They can't go back to Baker Street now."

"The porn on that computer…" Art's voice trailed, remembering an earlier experience with the hidden camera. "Who goes through the Internet history of their flatmate?"

"Sherlock Holmes?" Jones replied. The two of them watched Kitty walk past. Jones grabbed up his shopping bag. It was his cue.

"Do you want backup?" Art asked. "What if they try to kill you?"

"I'll run," Jones said. "I need you to stay here and get ready to leave when I get back in the car."

"You sure? I mean I could maybe…do something?" Art suggested. "I am supposed to be your right hand man."

"You are doing something," Jones said. He got out of the car. "Keep the motor running."

"I'm not made out of petrol," Art said, but he kept the motor running anyway. About ten minutes later, Jones scrambled for the car, trying not to put weight on his left foot. Art opened his door of the car so he could get out to help Jones.

Jones shook his head. "Stay put," he said as quietly as he dared. He almost fell over, but he managed to grab onto the passenger door and got into the car. "Go. Just go."

Art put the car into drive and floored it.

"Not this fast. Don't be suspicious," Jones said. He was already gently easing his left shoe off his foot.

Art slowed down. "You were limping."

"I went out a second story window," Jones said. "I landed in some rubbish bags."

"You what?!" Art almost swerved off the road, but he got the car back under control.

"Keep your eyes on the road," Jones said. "You know you can't drive when you're distracted." He pressed his fingers gently along his foot. It was puffy but not bruised or red. He had never seen anyone as angry as Sherlock and John. He honestly thought had he not bailed out the window, they might have torn him limb from limb like a cartoon.

"Do you think he's going to follow?" Art asked. "Do we go home?" Art looked down at Jones' foot.

"I don't know," Jones said. "We probably have – ART!"

Art slammed on the brakes and turned the steering wheel. They did a doughnut, but somehow managed not to hit the car blocking their way. "What do I do? What do we do?" Art's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. "Do we leave?"

Another car appeared, blocking their only escape route. Jones carefully put his foot back in his shoe. "This might be where it ends," Jones said. He hoped this was Mycroft and not M's doing.

It was Mycroft's agents. Anthea approached their car and knocked on Art's window. Art had not relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. Jones reached over Art and rolled the window down. He recognized her from when MI-6 captured him months ago.

"Could you get in the car behind you?" she asked as though discussing if they should have peas or carrots with dinner.

"What?" Art asked. Jones knew he thought Anthea was with M. M always chose cute women of ambiguous sexuality.

"It's okay," Jones said. He carefully helped Art let go of the steering wheel. "She's MI-6."

"'MI-6?!'" Art stared at Jones. "No way."

Jones nodded and got out of the car. Art followed his lead. Anthea let them into the back of the car. They travelled to an alley beside the backdoor of a small clinic several blocks away. Anthea led them to a hospital bed and shut the curtains around them. Jones sat on the hospital bed, hoping a doctor might look at his foot. Art stood nearby, on edge.

"So do they drug us and then take our kidneys?" Art asked. "Poison us with cyanide? Maybe I shouldn't have started that script."

Jones said nothing. He watched the clock. After sitting for fifteen minutes, Mycroft appeared alongside a doctor. Jones had no doubts the doctor was another agent. The doctor got to work quietly, poking and prodding Jones' foot gently before deciding if there should be an x-ray or not.

"That was an impressive escape," Mycroft said in a tone that Jones could not completely believe any compliments from. "I was hoping to speak to both of you before the final stages."

"Final stages?" Art asked no one in particular. Then he turned to Jones. "So he knows?" he asked Jones.

"He knows," Jones said. "This is his plan."

"With modifications, I assure you," Mycroft said. He appraised the doctor's wrapping of Jones' foot. "You must be 'Art,'" he said as though he knew Art's full name and entire life story. "We will need you for the final stage of the plan. You see, Jones here has to 'die.'"

"Wait," Art said and held up his hands.

"Not die for real," Mycroft said before Art could launch into an impassioned plea. He reached into his suit coat and handed Jones a prop gun along with prop blood. "Have you ever worked with these types of props before?"

"Yes," Jones answered. It was an acting class ages ago, but he thought he could remember. He took the items carefully.

"The assassins you 'hired,' will be in place," Mycroft said. "But, they will not strike. You must make Sherlock fall regardless of whatever happens between you."

Jones ran a hand along the prop gun, contemplating it. "Sherlock won't actually die, right?"

Mycroft smiled, but it did not bring reassurance or comfort. "Of course he won't. He has things worth living for now."

Art shifted his weight. "So, what do I do?"

"You find a way to get your friend away." Mycroft reached into his suit coat and this time produced four tickets and two passports. He handed these to Art. "You cannot appear until Sherlock disappears. You must also act before anyone in the area becomes aware of a 'dead' body." Once Art took the tickets and passports, Mycroft added, "Once the two of you leave the crime scene, take the ferry to Calais. You will take a flight and then change planes in Lodz. Where you get off after that is up to you after that. The flight will make four more stops."

"What about our families?" Art asked. His eye flickered to Jones.

"They will be relocated in various ways," Mycroft said. "You will most likely never see any of them again." The bandaging was done and Jones was quiet. Art also appeared to have no questions that Mycroft could actually answer productively. "Good luck, gentlemen. I hope we never see each other again," Mycroft paused, "for your sakes." Then Mycroft and the doctor left.

Art watched the curtain close and stared off at the spot. He let out a deep breath. "He's not natural," he managed. "Nobody's that pleasantly icy."

Jones took the crutches leaning against the bed and slid off carefully. "I won't use the crutches when the time comes," he said. "I don't want to show weakness."

"What if we have to run?" Art asked. He followed Jones out of the clinic. Their car waited outside. An agent got out of the driver's seat when Jones and Art approached. It was very early in the morning.

"We won't," Jones said. "If Sherlock can't go home, where will he go? He can't go to Scotland Yard. He's going to St. Bart's." He played Moriarty for so long that what Art and he had to do came to Jones without much thought. "We'll go home. I'll change my clothes, do my hair." Jones continued explaining how that would lead to a rooftop confrontation. "It will be the rooftop," Jones said. "It's the most secret place."

"You are freaking me out," Art said as they got into the car, "but I'll do it."

As Jones suspected, Sherlock picked the rooftop of St. Bart's to have their final confrontation. Jones took a chance when he fired the gun. Sherlock saw a lot of dead bodies. Jones was not certain how many Sherlock saw die in front of him. Jones decided to put the fake gun in his mouth. He'd sewn the blood capsules into the collar of his shirt and worn a coat to help hide the capsules. When he pulled the trigger, his finger looped around a thread the unravelled and allowed the blood capsules to burst when he fell back and ooze along the roof top. The hardest part was to stare up at the sky without blinking or moving. He could hear Sherlock's shock and momentary panic. Jones stared at the sky, listening to Sherlock explain things to John on the phone. Jones snuck a blink when he could no longer stand it, but he continued to remain stiff. His joints ached and he knew the rain would start soon.

When Sherlock jumped, Jones closed his eyes. He did not know how Sherlock would survive that kind of fall. Jones moved slowly. He pulled off his tie and tried not to step in the pool of fake blood on the rooftop. He resisted the urge to look and see if Sherlock survived.

Jones slid down the banister of the stairs to the roof, almost falling when he reached the bottom. His foot ached and he knew it was swollen in his shoe. Art met him in the hall with a wheelchair. The first empty room they found became a changing room. When they emerged, the gel was out of Jones' hair, both of them wore cheap clothing, and Jones had wrapped his foot. Once Jones was back in the wheelchair, they moved slower through the hospital. Jones did not have to see Art's hands to know he gripped the wheelchair almost too tight.

Jones lowered his head and let his hair obscure his face. No one stopped them. No one called out for Jim from IT. Once outside, Art stopped pushing the chair and grabbed Jones by the arm, helping him up. "The scary brother talked to me again," Art said. "He said our stuff would be on the plane. Somehow they're going to get the stuff off the plane when we do. He also said there'd be car keys and flat keys."

"Okay," Jones said. He let Art help him onto the bus. They collapsed into the last open seats left. The rumour Sherlock Holmes committed suicide buzzed about the bus. The more passengers joined them, the less it sounded like a rumour and the more it sounded like truth. Some on the bus claimed they saw it. Jones closed his eyes and leaned forward in his seat, pinching the bridge of his nose. He felt nauseated again. Art shifted his feet away so if Jones threw up it hopefully wouldn't get on his shoes.

The story followed them onto the ferry. Once they were in France, it was breaking international news. Jones and Art sat in Calais-Dunkerque Airport, listening to the details. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Jones stopped talking. Art helped Jones onto the plane. They disembarked in Lodz.

"We need to pick a place we actually know the language," Art said. They spoke sparingly on the flight and he was not in a mood to remain quiet while on a layover. "So…English speaking places."

Jones watched his hands. Lodz was not speaking about Sherlock Holmes. It was a reprove that he knew would not last.

"Maybe we'll go to Australia," Art said. "Get eaten by spiders." He leaned back in his seat. "Could go to Hawaii. Get eaten by hula girls." Art looked at Jones. He nudged Jones' foot with his own.

"Wherever you want," Jones said in almost a whisper.

"Seriously?" Art asked. "You're trusting me with this." He did not get a reply. Art sighed. He was not sure if he trusted himself with their relocation.

The third country the plane took them to after Poland was Australia. The final stop would be Singapore and then the plane would go in for maintenance. Art hesitated. At the last possible moment, he grabbed Jones and rushed out of the plane before the flight attendants could close the door. Jones quietly helped Art follow the signs to baggage claim. Once they retrieved their bags, Art and Jones sat and watched the Sydney airport. They waited for their contact who would bring them keys and their new lives.

**x**

I've started working on a new script. It's about these two guys sent to the other side of the world. Cut off from friends and family, they have to give up their old lives but maybe not their old dreams.

**x**

**The End**


End file.
